


Gather and Surmise

by freedomworm



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 08:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20306650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freedomworm/pseuds/freedomworm
Summary: At least they've been given options.





	Gather and Surmise

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this movie yet again and apparently every time I do, I also need to puke out a fic to process my feelings. Tim Roth is so beautiful and now I need to go rewatch Reservoir Dogs.
> 
> Have fun trying to understand these sentences through my over use of em dashes. :)c
> 
> Reviews are appreciated.

For a moment he thinks—he _ believes _ that something remarkable will happen. 

One doesn’t rummage about in silence, collecting an array of objects before saying, “look at this” without reason. One _ shouldn’t _ anyhow, but he–Guil—R-Rosencrantz does. And it all clamors to the ground with an awful echo.

Guildenstern winces and straightens up. “Leave things alone.” He turns his attention way, disappointment bitter in his mouth. Foolish of him to have thought, after everything, after—

“This is interesting…”

And there he is again, new items in hand, ready to demonstrate some other curiosity. And he’s so confident, so proud. And it fails.

And. And Guildenstern knows—instinctively, in a way he wishes he knew other things—that he’s already forgotten the failure. That he’s moved on. That he’ll keep moving on until something else stops him.

It’s this ability, rather, this defect, that simultaneously comforts Guildenstern and infuriates him.

But he has, at least, not been left alone. He’s been left this—this—fellow, this friend. This hapless fool who follows, and fails to question except through game. He doesn’t see, or doesn’t care, to delve into the very existential conundrum that sits so heavy on Guildenstern’s shoulders. Instead, he only makes things worse, refusing to focus, finding ridiculous distractions, and misunderstanding Guildenstern so badly sometimes that he loses grasp of the plot as well. He could kill Rosencrantz in those moments, and he's almost certain that when the man _ does _ die, Guildenstern will be there right next to him.

But.

He always feels the anger dissipate as soon as he raises his voice, leaving him just feeling tired and bitter all by himself.

And then Rosencrantz says something, or tries to show him something, and the distraction is enough of a saving grace from headache that Guildenstern supposes this must be what drew them together in the first place. In Wittenberg. It feels like so long ago that he can’t quite say what the truth of the matter is. It feels as though he's simply always been with Rosencrantz—so much so that they've become one in the eyes of others as well as themselves.

“Get off me,” he growls, “Get off!”

It takes more than a couple of words spit through his teeth to actually maneuver around in the narrow chute until Rosencrantz is able to climb out and reach in to help him out after.

Hamlet is long gone, of course, and they straighten themselves out before heading out the mess hall toward sleeping quarters set aside in the castle for guests.

At least Guildenstern feels he knows the way this time, his feet taking him through the dim rooms, down empty corridors and up equally empty stairs.

Perhaps it’s the promise of a night’s rest, or perhaps it’s the boldness that comes with the dark—either way, his steps feel lighter now, his head less cluttered by a handful of questions fighting off static.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m quite looking forward for this day to be over,” Rosencrantz pipes up. “Sleep is great comfort. No one asks you much of anything when you’re asleep. I suppose it’s a bit like being dead, don’t you?”

“Don’t I think?”

“Right.”

Guildenstern nearly stops in his tracks with wonder, but he carries on. No need to celebrate a simple success in communication. After all, it’s what he should expect: to be able to ask a clarifying question and feel thusly clarified. Still, he smiles a little, giddy in the dark.

And it is _ quite _ dark, as though the entire castle is unlit.

Only a few low-position gleams of orangish light seem to illuminate their way, offering barely enough of a glow for Guildenstern to see it when they reach a wooden doorway cut out from the stone walls.

He doesn’t know why, but the door seems familiar. He supposes they’ve stayed here before, as guests of Hamlet.

Rosencrantz pushes open the door without needing to be told, perhaps recognizing the room as well.

Inside, a four-stick candelabra is lit at a desk of some kind, the candles burning dangerously low, two of the flames beginning to flicker out. Even without a fire burning in the fireplace, the room is remarkably warm, as though heated in some other way. 

Guildenstern _ thinks _ there’s a bed in a corner of the room, assuming he’s correctly identifying the large shadow there. It’s still pitch black, not even a beam of light from the moon to help see by. 

If he felt along the wall for the windows, he might be able to draw back the drapes. He feels exhausted all of a sudden, however, and settles for shuffling around the floor toward the shadow-of-a-bed instead.

“Guildenstern?” Rosencrantz’s voice rings out from still somewhere near the door.

He turns and sees his outline there, shadow visible against the dim light coming in from the hall outside the room.

“Well, close the door. Come on.” Guildenstern says.

Slowly, the glimmer of light from the corridor disappears and he hears the wooden click of the door closing.

“Where are you?” Rosencrantz says in a higher pitch than normal, onset panic evident.

Guildenstern resists a sigh, but rolls his eyes. “Follow my voice.”

Boots scrape against the ground with tentative steps.

“Over here.” He holds out his hand and waves his arm around until his hand touches something fabric and then he feels Rosencrantz’s fingers tangling with his. “Right. This way now.” He begins making his way toward the shadow-bed, only now that there’s no light from the hall, it’s even hard to locate and he finds himself pulling Rosencrantz along with one hand and flailing the other around in front of him in hopes of discovering some more fabric.

Off to the side, the candlelight goes out entirely.

“It’s too dark,” Rosencrantz mutters, his grip tight on Guildenstern’s hand.

“Well, there’s no light.”

“I can see _ that _!”

Finally, Guildenstern’s outstretched boot touches a bed post. “Here—it’s right here.” He takes another step, still dragging Rosencrantz along, and lurches forward, finding a soft landing in front of him.

He feels the hand around his loosen and then the mattress dips as Rosencrantz falls on it with a huff.

“Thank God. I thought we’d be searching for ages. Who knew there was even a bed at all?” His voice is muffled, suggesting that he’s speaking with his face buried in the blankets.

“Come on.” Guildenstern hauls himself up first, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. “At least take off your boots.”

There is no reply.

“Rosencrantz.”

“What?”

“Your boots.”

“What of them?” Rosencrantz grumbles, but he shifts around and then Guildenstern hears a dull thud as a boot hits the ground. 

_ Thunk_. A second boot joins the first.

Satisfied, Guildenstern begins undressing himself, unlacing his outerwear first. Unable to see floor from bed, nevermind figure out where a nearby chair might be, he has no choice but to let his clothes fall off over the side of the bed as he dresses down to his undertunic and braies.

As Guildenstern finally kicks off his boots to get his pants off over his ankles, he hears Rosencrantz say suddenly, “Hey,” voice full of wonder. “Guildenstern.”

“What?” he looks around in the dark and is met by silence, although he suspects Rosencrantz is trying to wiggle his eyebrows at him. “Speak up, I can’t see you.”

“_Instinctive_,” is the giddy reply, “Yet again. Do you think-?”

“Too early to say,” Guildenstern decides promptly, but something satisfied and warm blooms in his belly.

“Well, I feel good about it,” Rosencrantz says. “We did what we were supposed to today, and tomorrow we’ll do the same, and we’ll have it all sorted out.” He pauses. “Then it’ll all make sense, and we’ll go home.”

It sounds simple when he puts it that way, but a niggling worry begins eating a hole in Guildenstern’s thoughts.   
  
What if it doesn’t all make sense? What if the dream-like haze felt during the day never vanishes? At least here, in the dark, he has the benefit of hindsight. He feels at ease here. So much that didn’t make sense in the harsh light of day seems not to matter now. When the sun is up, all he has is the nervous suspicion that something’s wrong, that his life is just a play and soon a curtain will go up and it will be revealed that he’s forgotten his lines. Here, now, those questions which plagued him before don’t seem so urgent. He feels as though he knows the answers, or at least that he could find them if he tried.

A warm hand finds his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Is that you?” Rosencrantz says quietly.

“I’m here,” He agrees, and shifts around, swinging his legs up onto the bed. “Move over.”

It takes a bit of work and groping about for the edges of the bed, but eventually they maneuver into their proper spots, heads on pillows, bodies stretched out shoulder to shoulder under a thick quilt.

Guildenstern closes his eyes and tries to force out all the tension in his body, but he feels a bit like he may be stuck this way. Rigid. 

Beside him, Rosencrantz lets out an absurd, contented sigh, and then rolls over, his arm disappearing from against Guildenstern’s. 

A warm huff of air appears at his ear. “Guildenstern?”

He opens his eyes, not that it makes a difference. “What?”

Silence. 

“_What _?”

“Just making sure,” Rosencrantz replies softly, and then he feels the blanket lift off his body slightly as underneath it, fingers gently pressing down over his ribs.

Heat rises to Guildenstern’s face and he feels his pulse picking up. 

Rosencrantz’s hand stills, palm resting flat over his stomach, rising and falling with his breath, which he’s struggling to keep at a steady pace.

Then the bed shifts as Rosencrantz moves, his breath brushing over his cheek as he whispers, “Goodnight,” so close that Guildenstern thinks he knows exactly where his face must be. He feels his heart jump up into his throat as a thought bursts across his mind. He could—he—

Warm lips suddenly press against his cheek, accompanied by the tickle of facial hair.

Guildenstern's snaps his head sideways, eyes staring wide into the dark. And, of course, he still can't see, but the black doesn't seem all that blinding.

It takes two tries to kiss Rosencrantz squarely on the lips—his first attempt ends up in his beard—but finally they kiss, close-lipped, mouths mashed firmly together. Guildenstern's neck is straining slightly at an odd angle and he can tell that Rosencrantz is simply frozen, unsure what to do.

It had seemed like the thing to do, in the moment, but now he’s not so sure. He retreats, mumbling, “Goodnight,” and quickly rolls over, putting his back to Rosencrantz and crossing his arms tightly over his still-racing heart.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. “Guil—Ro—Guildenstern.” Another tap, this time more of a shaking of his shoulder. Rosencrantz shifts closer, chest pressing up against his shoulder. His hand rests over his arm. “_Guildenstern _.” 

“What?” he grits out.

“Are we…” The question goes unfinished, but Guildenstern knows the end of it because he’s wondered the same thing. It’s crossed his mind more than once over the course of the day. 

“I don’t know,” he says, feeling like his insides are withering to admit it. 

“No one’s said.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“Then…” Silence follows, and Guildenstern thinks he can hear Rosencrantz’s mouth opening and closing and his mind processing all this furiously. “Do _ you _ think-? I say, doesn’t it _ seem _ like…?”

Guildenstern fixes his gaze to the black space in front of him. “Seem like what?”

Rosencrantz’s fingers curl around Guildenstern’s arm and pulls at him until he turns over again. “Well, we’re—we’re _ together _. Aren’t we?”

“Wouldn’t we know?” Guildenstern snaps, pulling his arm away. He can feel the way Rosencrantz must be squinting at him, pointlessly trying to see his face in the black.

“How?”

“You just know that sort of thing!”

“But _ how _?” Rosencrantz demands, his voice emanating loudly from somewhere half an inch from Guildenstern’s left eye.

He winces, hand coming up to push Rosencrantz’s face away. “Leave things alone,” he hisses. “For Heaven’s sake. Just go to sleep.”

“But—”

“Won’t you let it go?” Guildenstern shouts, shooting upright. “Just—” He can’t seem to find what he wants to say and thus falls silent all on his own, breathing hard through his nose, his blood pumping loudly in his ears.

The responding silence stretches for a long time, so long that a seed of panic begins to germinate within him. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.” Rosencrantz’s voice is quiet, barely a whisper. His hand materializes out of the dark, finding Guildenstern’s shirt and tugging at him, adding physical proof to his words.

He lies back down.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Guildenstern lets out a big exhale through his nose. “Didn’t mean what?” he says.

Rosencrantz shifts, moving closer to him, seeming to test how close he can get before his advances are rejected. His cheek comes to rest near Guildenstern’s shoulder. An arm snakes over his waist, hugging his side.

Guildenstern doesn’t move. It feels safe, like he’s being held together, all of his pieces contained in the embrace. He closes his eyes, and finally feels the tension drain out of his muscles all at once, leaving him feeling as though he’s sinking into the mattress.

At last, he closes his eyes and waits for his exhaustion to overtake him. He almost forgets what he last asked when he hears a tiny laugh at his side.

“I don’t remember.”

Guildenstern doesn’t try to think of anything to say to that, but it doesn’t matter, as Rosencrantz continues. “It wouldn’t be so hard to believe, would it?” he says, “If we were together.”

Guildenstern opens his mouth. _ It’s not what you believe, _ he wants to say, _ It’s what _ is _ . _

“No,” he says eventually. “It wouldn’t be that hard.”

Perhaps, tomorrow, or the following day—when they’re through at Elsinore—when they go home, then maybe… Guildenstern frowns, trying to imagine it: going home again. It’s bound to happen. It just is. But he can’t picture it.

And now his exhaustion begins to feel different, mixed with a wordless suspicion of something—of the idea that perhaps he won’t be going home tomorrow, or ever, and that he’s known this all along. The fog feels like it’s creeping back into his head and he hates it, really does, but he’s so tired… Yet still, in spite of this, in spite of the paranoia—the uneasiness—the cold dread that poisons his blood, and makes him want to freeze and never move again—

In spite of all that, he lifts a weary arm and wraps it over Rosencrantz, hugging him back in some gesture of assurance. Of Apology. What for, he can’t say. He supposes he doesn’t remember.

Nothing more is said between them, and sleep comes to take Guildenstern in his renewed state of mental unrest. He wonders what Rosencrantz is making of all this, if he's making anything at all, or if it's already passed through his head, discarded as another unknowable issue.

Guildenstern's mind is toiling over new questions, different from the ones that seemed so important earlier. He figures it this way:

It’s one thing to be of such a _ oneness _ that the discernment of Guildenstern and Rosencrantz—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—is a point of debate. Afterall, only one of them needs at all times to remember who is who. 

But it's another thing, on the other issue, the other question—the answer to which might explain why Guildenstern’s palms sweat and his heart thumps when Rosencrantz draws too near, might explain why it only seems proper to kiss him, even if it takes two tries in the dark—

Right. Toward _ that _ question, the question of what they were. If they were _ together,_ in a way that made them two wholes rather than just one—or at least, if it wasn’t so hard to believe that they might be like that, as they both agreed—wasn’t it only fair to know? _ Shouldn’t _they know?


End file.
